My Brother's Shadow
by CookandBaker
Summary: Idea for a fic in an AU in which Frerin survives the Battle of Azanulbizar instead of Thorin and finds himself increasingly burdened with the weight of leadership and by the ghostly shadows of a life cut short. Years later, Gandalf faces him the de-facto king with the possibility of the quest; he finds himself deeply conflicted but somehow determines to win Erebor or die trying.
1. Chapter 1

Need I say none of this belongs to me? This is an AU in which Frerin survives the Battle of Azanulbizar instead of Thorin and finds himself increasingly burdened with the weight of leadership, burdened by the ghostly shadows of a life cut short. Years later, Gandalf faces him the de-facto king with the possibility of the quest; he finds himself deeply conflicted but somehow determines to win Erebor or die trying. Its just an idea for a long fanfic - do comment, or even use the idea for your own fanfic-ting.

* * *

**Introduction**

Frerin shuddered as he donned the mithril chainmail Thrain handed to his son, biting his lip to keep his feelings reigned in. This was going to be his first battle. It wasn't supposed to be happening, not for many years yet. Frerin felt unprepared, unprotected, and afraid.

He had been the carefree second prince, cheerful when Thorin was serious, slightly awkward when Thorin was confident. Frerin liked jokes. He had liked telling stories, getting to know people and understand them. His greatest ambition was not to be a king, diplomat, statesman (or dwarf), or even a warrior. Frerin wanted to be a healer. He wanted to bathe wounds and comfort the wounded, coax children to take bitter tonics, even deliver babies. Not this... Not slaying orcs, taking lives...

Frerin would have begun as an apprentice, back as the privileged second prince. His father had always been lenient, his mother doting. Now their mother was gone. No doubt she would have clung to Frerin and insisted that he was too young for battle, for war. But now she had gone to Mahal, and Thrain was far too preoccupied and overwhelmed with the cares, griefs and burdens of a people in exile and a madly disillusioned father and king. Frerin felt he had to do this, even though he a of youngling of forty-two years. It would be betrayal of their kin if he did not rise to bravery in these desperate times, not when Dain, scarcely twenty-six, had volunteered.

"We have to do this," Frerin understood, "We have to claim a home for our people."

The heirs of Durin now understood the burden of leadership. It was almost killing Thrain, bent over now with anxiety, overtaxed and stretched to his limit.

"There, it fits."

Thrain tugged his beard with a proud and weary smile as he stepped back to admire his two strapping lads - brawny, tough as iron, and unshakably regal.

Thorin swung his broadsword a little, effortlessly gliding it through the air with his brow furrowed in marked concentration before sighing, sheathing his weapon and taking his leave.

He turned to Frerin before exiting, putting an arm over his small brother and looking him in the eye.

"You will find your courage, brother, aye, even fury. I am sure of it. Do not fear what the portents say..."

The signs had predicted great loss, and Frerin, Thorin, Thrain and many others felt a deep foreboding, a wordless fear they dared not put into words. The omens did not look well for Frerin especially.

Frerin felt sorry for his cousin Dain. The Lord of the Iron Hills and his son had come with a strong number of their fighters. Dain was ridiculously young, but well trained. Still, it wasn't their fight and they stood to lose so very much.

Frerin exited the tent and made his way to the barracks the nobles of Durin shared. It was noisy, cramped, and small, but Frerin felt it was good they were mostly whole and together. Who knew however much longer each would live?

Fundin, brutal and battleready, now consulted Thrain on their finalized strategies in the corner. Balin his son quietly witnessed this meditatively and Dwalin his other son was sitting alone, busied with the task of furiously sharpening a stack of heavy, wrought, dwarven battleaxes. Dwalin was also far too young, a child, even. But Dwalin was fiercel determining, whereas Frerin felt little resolve, merely resignation to a possible disastrous fate.

Frerin glanced at the corner he and Thorin shared but it was empty. He smiled, knowing instinctively where his brother was - outside, saying goodbye to his beloved dwarrowdam. The parting that was to come would be bitter for the betrothed couple. They should have been long married now, but they had had to wait to very long. Frerin knew this battle to be a personal one for Thorin, desperately determined to win a home a last. She was like another sister to them, with the rest of her family dead, buried under the rubble of dragon-ruin.

Frerin liked to watch the two lovers together - he sighed now to think pessimistically that if he were to perish in the coming days, that love would be something he would never have. Frerin was more than a little jealous - he envied their relationship, the deep understanding and matured affection they had for each other. No doubt they would be somewhere quiet, looking into each others eyes, vowing again their eternal life and love to each other, weaving hope, love, spoken and unspoken fears and emotions into the braids they tenderly set into the others' hair.

Frerin sighed and plunked down into bed. Already his nerves were a wreck. The odds were impossible - victory did not look probable, but they had no choice other than to go.

_I'm a liability. Useless in battle. Will get my kin killed, if not myself, within minutes. _

Frerin felt like crying. How could he face the war ahead of them? That sinking feeling knotted his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of something else, but all he could think of was Dis. Poor little girl, his baby sister, in the women's camp with close relatives. Times ahead were going to be very, very uncertain.

Frerin glanced around the room at his cousins, youths barely ready, poised to be thrown to the enemy's mercy.

_Mahal, this battle will make or break us. _

Frerin could only beseech Mahal.

_Spare us pain._

_Spare us sorrow._

_Spare us loss._

_Spare us wounds._

_Give us strength._

_Overpower our enemies._

_Give us back our home._

These silent petitions rose like soundless shrieks to Mahal whilst Frerin huddled under his coat, fingers clawing into the tattered rug on the cold sod floor that served as his bedroll.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Oooh, thanks to all for your favs, follows and comment. This is set at the beginning of the war of the orcs and dwarves, which spanned over 8 years which explains the age difference.

Need I say that the characters, settings and events do not belong to me?

**Chapter 2: The Calm**

Frerin did not feel Thorin slip into the corner next to him. Thorin anxiously looked over Frerin - poor, thin, Frerin, obviously worked up with fright, misery etched over his youthful face. Thorin growled inaudibly and arranged the covers over his brother, patting him and rearranging his tensed limbs.

_I'll watch your back, brother, do not fear. _

Thorin glanced over at Dwalin, who was getting ready for bed. Tomorrow they would set into motion their plan to draw the orcs out of Moria, attack them from various points and reduce their numbers. It would be a painfully slow operation, but Thorin was frustrated Thrain had left him out of planning. Surely, if Balin knew what was going on, why couldn't Thorin? Thrain kept avoiding the subject and leaving Thorin out of discussions.

By the dim, dusky, light, Dwalin twiddled his thumbs and found another small stack of knives to polish. He was not inclined to sleep, so his father Fundin sat beside him awhile, using the whetting stones with skilled precision to scrape the blades until they were deadly enough to pierce the toughest orc-hide. Their motions were rhythmic, almost in unison. In the dim, unlighted tent, the last thing Thorin saw that night was Fundin and Dwalin, father and son, sharpening weapons together. They were not anxious, but solemn. Only Mahal knew what Fundin was going through, letting his two, only sons, march into battle.

* * *

The bugle sounded sharply in the morning and Frerin jolted awake. The others were already dressed.

"Why didn't you wake me?" Frerin scowled at Thorin, who was already dressed and heading out.

Thorin shrugged,

"I got up early, is all. You should get what sleep you can, _nadadith._"

Then he motioned towards some dried meat and bread on a plate in the corner. There wasn't much left.

"Eat well, brother," Thorin said, "You have a long day ahead."

Frerin scurried and got dressed, nervously cinching his belt and tying the numerous laces as tight as he could manage with trembling fingers. Already the troops were gathering outside and Frerin stuffed the food into his mouth, joining the gathered assembly. His stomach felt knotted in a dead, dull pain that made him bend over ever so slightly.

_Great, _thought Frerin, _Great time to get a stomach-ache._

But Frerin ignored the grunting of his stomach. With a deep belch and a couple passes of gas, he felt a lot better. Still, butterflies flurried inside and he felt himself getting much too sweaty under the helmet, and it slid around uncomfortably.

They stood in formation on the grounds, Thorin, Frerin, Dain, and Dwalin in one regiment mostly consisting of younglings like themselves or dwarves too old to be at the front of battle. They waited for the order to march ahead. Horns, trumpets and bugles sounded directing other regiments into position. Then all was silent.

Frerin's hands were numb, sweat pooled under the heavy helmet. He found it difficult to grip his sword and shield properly. He was standing, at the back. Thrain saw him and nodded to him before disappearing to inspect another regiment. Thrain, Thror, Fundin, Balin, Nain - they were busy going around, speaking with captains and organizing things. Thorin's face registered nothing, but his eyes anxiously and irritably followed their movements.

_Its about to start. _Frerin's knees were knocing together in nervous anticipation. He felt sick to his stomach. _How can there be a happy ending? How long before all this ends?  
_

The vision of the portents' message startled him. It was almost disorientating.

_If I die, _the thought same to him suddenly, _what will I be remembered for?_

His life had been too short to be of any note, and it pained him.

A nearby horn started Frerin to attention, and the entire regiment gripped their weapons, ready to move into position for an attack. However, an order did not come for another twenty minutes or so. In the meanwhile, nobody spoke. The still silence was unnerving.

Then the order came to march.

Frerin was a singer, and when they begin to march in lines, he could only look down at the ground at the boots of the dwarf before him. He hummed a lively tune, being a great lover of folk song, trying to calm his heaving stomach. It was barely any pace they were going at, but it was enough, surely.

But they stopped rather abruptly. This was just a field on a hill quite a distance away from the entrance to Moria. They could hear some action in a distance, no doubt some skirmishes wee happening. But frustrating, no matter how any dwarf craned their neck from this position, they saw nothing.

The sun rose and began to get hotter and hotter, and still no call came. The order that sent them here remained, but as yet, nothing had dwarves began to sheath their weapons and talk to each other. Frerin nervously sat on a large rock as the regiment mingled. Still nothing happened.

Dwalin was in a corner, growling to himself and ready to use his axe to split his own head in two.

What was going on? What was this company's role in the battle, anyway?

Nain, Lord of the Iron Hills and head of the regiment, went back to the camp to consult Thrain. He came back with further orders to wait, and, frustratingly, no news or any development.

Hours passed, and finally a youngling came with the news that they could return to camp.

Frerin breathed slowly - this day was over, then.

They gradually marched back to the camp, not taking their hurry. All was quiet, as if nothing had happened.

Then they started carrying in the dead and wounded. Frerin felt as if a mob was sweeping past him. About fifty wounded dwarves, seven or so dead, from the other regiments. He saw them being carried by their companions with grim faces, being met by the healers. The pit in his stomach tossed and turned, ready to devour him.

Some strange compulsion led him to wander into the medic tent and look at the wounded.

_So that was what was happening._

Frerin immediately started to help, or at least try to. The healers could handle this - it wasn't really too bad. The few dead were mostly from arrows shot by the orcs in defense. Nothing much had happened today, at least not the worst that Frerin had dreaded.

He immediately put himself to the day at hand.

_Let tomorrow worry for itself, _he tried to coach himself.

* * *

"You'll see battle soon enough," Thrain growled at Thorin and Dwalin, not looking at them.

"I will not stand by and see other dwarves sacrifice their lives whilst I remain idle. Father, why do you keep us in the shadows?"

"Nor will I," added Dwalin,

"You will get your share of fighting, I assure you," Thrain begged, "Be patient now. Help around. We have a plan. a strategy. We will not rush like fools to our deaths. Now go, get an early rest. I need to consult Fundin."

"I wish you'd tell me your plans, Father." Thorin said in a low voice, " I'm sorry to be such a burden and to make such a request, but surely I can at least...At least let me _learn _to be of help to you."

Thrain looked up at his son at last. He paused, then comprehension flooded across his face.

_I see, _he thought, then cleared his throat,

"I do have some matters for you to look into," he said, turning around and looking for a piece of paper, "Go and oversee the..."

Frerin saw Thorin and Dwalin leave the tent, ready to complete some appointed task.

* * *

"You cannot shield them forever, " Fundin whispered to Thrain fiercely, "Some day they must learn to bear their own shields."

"Surely you would not say that of your own two sons, " Thrain whispered back, equally fiercely, "They are even younger..."

Fundin shook his head,

"They'll grow to meet whatever demands. Mahal put it in them; I know them, I believe they will pull through, or die trying. It is I who is weak,"

"This was my father's idea," Thrain shook his head, "I'm protecting them from this madness. Do you not understand? I'm doing what I can for them because I love them, I have to keep them safe or Thror will have us all dead by noon tomorrow!"

"You put more burdens on yourself no dwarf was meant to carry, " Fundin grasped Thrain's hand, "There's only so much you can do."

"I must try!"

"Cousin, you may well die trying. You're killing yourself."


End file.
